They’ll talk of Nijinsky and Arkle and Dundrum
Boomerang, Danoli, and the brilliant Dawn Run,
But everywhere there’s ponytalk and stories to enthral
They’ll talk about the gallant deeds of the fabled Cannon Ball.

His stallion duties he performed in far off Athenry
And mares and fillies met him as he was trotting by
He’d hit the road with Henri Toole each Spring when duty called
And farmers in their field would gaze and say “there is Cannon Ball”.

His grandsire Prince Llewellyn, he crossed the sea from Wales,
Not far from where Saint Patrick so long ago set sail.
In Maam was born the grandson that brought him so much fame
That pony that lived out his life accross the bridge at Leam.

John Costelloe was sometimes up and sometimes Mark or Jack
But Cannon Ball he won no matter who was on his back.
The field it did not matter, nor pedigree so fine
This pony always stood the pace and beat them to the line.

It did not matter where he ran, or what was on the card,
The Claddagh, Roundstone, Clifden, or his favourite Oughterard,
The Farmer’s Race or Ladies Plate he won them as a rule,
And he would bring both pride and joy to his owner Henri Toole.

And ponies came from far and near, his colours to take down,
But he would show them who was king, they never took his crown.
For they might lead him at half way or at the final bend,
but Cannon Ball, he led them all when it came down to the end.

No Journey was too long for him, no job of work too tough,
A pony for all seasons, he took it smooth and rough.
No challenge could defeat him, regardless of the pain,
He beat, on one occasion, the Galway-Clifden train.

And how his public loved him, and savoured all his wins,
From Galway out to Clifden, in the Maamturks and Twelve Pins.
His life was their adventure, his exploits did amaze,
He gave them cause to celebrate and brightened up their days.

He started off the Stud Book, installed as Number One,
Followed on by Rebel who was his famous son.
His dynasty of Champions include Bridge Boy and Kim,
Gil and Carna Bobby, Tooreen Ros and Rebel Wind.

And to this day, when people sell their ponies at Maam Cross,
Or at the mart at Clifden, for a profit or a loss,
When they want to lavish praise, their greatest claim of all
Is to declare, “That pony there goes back to Cannon Ball”.

No wonder that they waked him, when at last he died,
With snuff, tobacco, poitín – and how old Henri cried.
To say farewell and comfort Henri, neighbours gathered round,
For well they knew that ne’er again would the likes of him be found.

And when they came to dig his grave, they dug both wide and deep,
they brought him on his stable door, and stood him on his feet.
His home, his fields, and Henri’s house were standing at his back,
While he was facing Oughterard, and his favourite racing track.

Now Cannon Ball, good Cannon Ball, you’re up there in the sky,
Where Pegasus, the Winged Horse, and a few more good ones fly,
But if you fear that galaxy would put you to the test,
You know my friend, they never would – ‘coz you were just the best.

Now come all ye pony lovers from near and afar,
Salute our greatest Pony, and proclaim our brightest star,
For courage, speed, endurance, he was the best of all,
His owner, he was Henri Toole, and he was Cannon Ball.